


Promises of Bloodshed and Peace

by Sylla_Headhunter



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Day 6 I have died, Keitor Month 2020, Lotor is a prince, M/M, We have the power of Satan and Keitor on our side, so much sexual tension gUYS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylla_Headhunter/pseuds/Sylla_Headhunter
Summary: Day 6: Alliance/BetrayalPrince Lotor is very much not impressed with his father's treatment of their kingdom and decides to relieve him of his earthly bonds. A visit from a tiny assassin almost ends his life as well.
Relationships: Keith/Lotor (Voltron)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62
Collections: Keitor Month 2020





	Promises of Bloodshed and Peace

**Author's Note:**

> I barely managed, oh my god. Someone bury me, pls
> 
> Lotor and Keith are uh, gay disasters and I love them very much. I feel like I can write explicit stuff for every single prompt I put on here and it's kind of embarrassing. Pls keep it in your pants guys, thank you.
> 
> (Also, I am very sorry, but assassins are sexy and holding a knife to someone's throat is practically a very hot and very dangerous kiss, sue me)

"You cannot continue this madness, father!”  
Lotor, crown prince of Aldurien, felt his blood run cold at the look of sheer contempt his father tossed at him before the regal mask on his face snapped into place once more.

“Is that any way to talk to your king?”  
His voice is almost as icy as the fury Lotor swallows down, unwilling to show his father just how much he wishes to punch that sneer off his face. He takes a deep breath instead, forcing himself to show the king as much courtesy as he still manages.

“The people are starving, my king”, he presses out between clenched teeth. “Taking half of their harvest and selling it off should be enough to get us through the winter and allow them to live! We aren’t talking about giving them the opportunity to revel in luxury, we are talking about basic human needs here!”  
King Zarkon doesn’t laugh and for one delirious second Lotor allows himself to believe that he has finally gotten through to his father, for once in his life – until he sees the look Zarkon measures him with.

“Pathetic.”  
The word, albeit one used quite frequently concerning his own nature, still carries a barely stunted sting and Lotor grits his teeth. Zarkon doesn’t even _look_ at him, his head held high and mighty.

“We are a warrant for their safety. They will have to do their part or suffer the consequences.”

He waves him off with that and Lotor nearly runs out of the throne room, coat billowing behind him and rage fuelling his steps.

_Stupid, ignorant oaf,_ he seethes in the privacy of his own thoughts, face a polite mask to the outside world.  _Would he just possess an inch of self assessment, he would realize the fool’s gamble he is about to make!_

They cannot risk a civil war so closely after the catastrophe that had been the war of the southern trenches – their resources swallowed up by the conflicts, streets still clogged up with refugees half a year later – and the only thing his father thinks about is his personal gain! Exploiting his own kingdom, his own people, instead of trying to find a method to increase the overall well-being of their country is madness.

A fever dream he will no longer stand for.

One of his generals joins him before he can reach his own chambers, towering over him as usual.

“Seems like it went well”, she grunts. He gives her a tight nod, reeling in his own facial expressions to the best of his abilities.

“He is irrefutably stubborn in his attempt to ruin his own ruler-ship. It is a shame, truly, to have to call myself of his blood.”  
Zethrid barks a harsh laugh and almost shoves him to the floor in an attempt to pat his back.

“So you say, Prince, so you say. But you being his blood will set everything else in motion, won’t it? Don’t be so hung up about it.”  
His shoulders relax slightly from their tensed position. “Indeed it will”, he answers her curtly – not even she is as foolish as to discuss their strategy in front of potential enemies to his agenda.

Zethrid follows him until they reach his own quarters, giving him an odd half bow as her sign of respect before walking off towards her own.

“I’ll see you on the training fields!”, she bellows and Lotor can’t help but let his mouth quip up into a small smile. It is only due to his hard work and the fact that he has gained her and the other generals’ help that he can safely call his meticulously woven net of lies and half truths a plan to better this kingdom – and it’s leadership.

His rooms are as meticulously cleaned as he has left them – not one document seems out of place. He has forbidden anyone from entering it long before he started to set everything in motion since the sheer thought of someone actually disturbing anything in here, even for the simple method of cleaning it, is one that he does not wish to indulge any further.

He takes one step towards his desk and freezes, eyebrows drawn together tightly as his eyes focus on one piece of paper. It is slightly askew, one edge brushing against the bare wood of the table underneath but it creates a dissonance he can almost _hear._

Someone has been in here.

He has about two seconds to ponder over it, body frozen and mind working furiously, before something cold and vicious touches his chin with murderous intent.

“Don’t move”, a voice hisses from above. He would have laughed had it not meant to do exactly what he was told not to be doing.

“I am not”, he replies instead, trying to locate his attacker and his intentions without being able to take a good look – or rather, any look at all – at them. Are they bigger than he himself is? Are they flying? No – he can’t hear the sound of wings beating over him, nor does he feel a breeze ruffling his hair. It leaves the option of him being taller than Lotor himself is – which would be an impressive feat – or …

“Do you enjoy dangling from my ceiling like a bedazzling medallion from an old crone’s neck?”

“I do not dangle.” The knife kisses his neck now in a way that makes Lotor fear for it should he try to talk again.

“I do, however, want to show your head what it feels like to fly out of that window, if you catch my meaning.”  
“Well, why do you hesitate then?” Lotor croaks, moving his adam’s apple as little as he can possibly manage. His attacker growls, pressing the knife firmer on to the pale skin of his throat.

“I’m the one asking questions here”, he hisses. “Understood.”  
“Perfectly fine.” He will have to read the assassin’s intentions through their questions then, rather than his own. Not an impossible feat.

Shuffling, almost too soft to be heard, happens over him. The knife, however, remains steady against his throat.

“You’re Crown Prince Lotor?”  
“Yes.”  
“You work for your father, King Zarkon?”  
“Correct.”  
“Where do the expenses on your papers go to?”  
Lotor doesn’t allow himself to hesitate – this little back and forth game is the only thing keeping his head on his shoulders and he knows it. Whoever his attacker is, they have his praise for being able to sneak up on him like they did.

“Into my own branch of the military and the freedom of my people.”  
No further question follows and if it weren’t for the weapon holding him captive, he would have thought his attacker to be gone. Then …

“Bullshit.”  
Lotor almost snorts a laugh. “Language”, he replies mildly enough, earning him a warning jab against his chin.

“Don’t fuck with me, rich boy”, his attacker practically growls, a low, guttural sound rising in their throat. “The only thing you people know is how to spend money for yourselves and you think you can tell me something about using it for charity?”  
“Since you seem so adamant about knowing the receiver of my expenses, as you call them, why are we still arguing about this? Did you not want to ‘show my head what it feels like to fly’?” He raises one of his eyebrows at that and waggles it meaningfully towards his ceiling. “If we absolutely have to continue having this conversation, I would prefer it if you came down from there and faced me so you may observe my sincere face.”  
Another silence adds to the tension residing in his body, before the metal vanishes from his throat like a dream from a waking man’s mind. A soft thud resounds through the room and Lotor finally dares to turn around to meet his attacker eye to eye.

Which is surprisingly difficult, since the man standing in his chambers and glaring daggers at him almost as sharp as his actual weapon, is smaller than him by no small amount.

“I now understand your dedication to my ceiling.”  
The other man bristles like a wounded cat. “There’s no dedication involved, dipshit, I just needed to get to your head and out of your range!”  
Lotor blinks and pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes never leaving the … man? Boy? He is honestly not so sure any more.

“You managed to do so admirably. Now, pray tell: why exactly are you here? You do not seem to be quite so adamant about killing me, if I may be so frank.”  
The boy (he has decided to settle on the diminutive) scoffs, before shrugging just once.

“I was curious. Is that a crime?”  
“Not exactly – breaking in my chambers, however, is. Why risk your neck for a mission you weren’t about to finish anyway?”  
He can’t deny the curiosity dwelling in his mind, after all, his eyes taking in the subtle shifts in the other’s demeanour, right to the point where the boy starts to fiddle with his knife.

“Your sigil”, he finally cracks in the silence weighing on him. “I know it.”  
“Oh?”, Lotor breathes, passing through the room in a heartbeat. The boy stumbles back until his back hits the wall, but his weapon is up, the tip scraping against Lotor’s chin, just as he slams his hand next to the boy’s shoulder. It seems absurdly gigantic next to his scrawny body.

“Pray tell, how do you know about it?”, he hums, right next to the boy’s ear, making him jolt.

“Does that matter? Get off me, you fucking piece of shit!”  
“Language.”  
“Oh, fuck you.”  
Lotor clicks his tongue, amused, and bites down on the response he is tempted to unravel the boy with – this method seems to be almost too effective and it pleases him greatly.

“Answer my question first.”  
The boy scowls, before shrugging, his eyes almost convincingly bored. “It’s the sigil of … a brotherhood I heard about. Nothing a crown prince should be getting himself involved with.”  
Lotor chuckles softly before stepping one step back, his hands raised slightly.

“See? Was that so hard?”  
The boy seems to bite down on another insult.

“So what?” he finally demands, “You’re conspiring against the king yourself? For what, fame? People to like you?”  
“What kind of man wants to usurp his own father for other people’s favour?” Lotor shoots back before shaking his head. The tiny assassin has gleamed all of this from one look at the few papers he has left on his desk – and likely his questions, too. He isn’t willing to put all of his cards on the table, but he is rather looking forward to a potential new ally.

“I have my own wishes concerning my father’s inevitable demise. They should be none of your concern, though I do promise that I intend to make things right.”  
“And I should believe you?” The boy stares at him blankly and Lotor feels a twinge of frustration growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Indeed you should”, he says instead of snapping at the boy. “Since I am your best chance at the king’s head.”  
The boy’s eyes widen and Lotor silently prepares himself for anything, his own hand drifting towards a small dagger hidden in his right sleeve. If the boy intends to betray him, if his father has hired an actor to fool his only son into revealing all his secrets, he will have to dispose of him, no matter how handsome he is.

“Alright.”  
Lotor blinks. “Alright?”, he repeats?  
The boy is smirking at him, a crooked, bloodthirsty thing, his blade vanishing into its sheath.

“Alright. I’m in. Let’s get your father’s head, then.”  
The tension drains from Lotor’s shoulders. “Well, a new ally should be able to tell his liege a name he can call him”, he drawls, one eyebrow raised. The boy doesn’t hesitate.

“It’s Keith.”  
Violent eyes meet pale blue ones, a silent promise of violence and bloodshed passing between them.

“Keith, then”, Lotor muses, lips twitching into an amused smile. “Welcome to my court.”  
“It’s an honour, _Lotor_ :”  
Maybe he should teach this one some manners after everything is arranged to his satisfaction.


End file.
